“After these admonitions, he went back to Goa. One day, when he was on a hunting expedition with his two dogs, he saw a herd of pigs swimming across the river. The ci-devant husband at once recognized his wife, and a longing for wealth took possession of him. He thereupon threw a spear at the middle pig and killed her just as she reached the shore. He ran to the place where she lay, ripped her pig body open, and found all her jewels. But no sooner had he the wealth within his grasp than he died himself as the proper punishment for his treachery. Thus it happens that his tribe is scattered all over the country, and the tribe which Goa manufactured fell to pieces, the remnant being made up by Tanjongs, Kanowits, Bliens, Kejamans, Sekarrangs, etc., all reduced in number.” This story of the pig lady was evidently a favourite one, for the chiefs listened to every word of the legend as if they had never heard it before, although they appeared to know it so well that, whenever the reciter paused for a second, one or other of the warriors seated round immediately prompted him. It grew cold. The mists were making themselves felt, they wreathed themselves round the tree-tops and formed into walls over the waters of the river, so that the distant hills became invisible. But the little owl’s voice was still heard crying for the moon. He had flown farther away in his search for higher branches of trees whence he could see his lady love. By and by, the moon itself was lost in the mist, and the little bird lover’s cry was silenced, when the ripple of the water over the pebbles, and the roar of the distant cataract, were the only sounds we heard. I said good-night to my friends and walked off to the hut with Ima, whilst Bertram, Dr. Langmore, and Mr. Bampfylde went to sleep in the boats moored by the river’s side. Salleh accompanied us to the hut, and when I said good-night to him and hoped he would sleep well, he said, “Oh no, Rajah Ranee, I shall not sleep to-night. I shall just doze like a Kijang,[12] with one eye open, so as to be on guard near your hut, ready for any emergency.” A quarter of an hour had not elapsed before I heard Salleh’s snores behind the thin walls of my leafy shelter! Then I fell asleep, and was awakened by wild and very sweet sounds. They were like the silvery tones of a flute, pouring forth triplets of notes, some long, some short, in the minor key. I got up and opened the leafy door. The half-light of dawn lay over the mists, enwrapping the trees and still hiding the river. As they lifted and rent themselves away from the branches of a bush growing near, I saw Salleh standing there, flute in hand. “Is that you, Salleh,” I said, “making that sweet music?” “Yes,” he replied; “it is a tune I play at dawn and sunset, because at these hours it sounds so sweet that it brings tears to my eyes, so I thought you would like me to play it to you.” Well! I thought, I am sorry for those people who imagine our